


Flicker From View

by picturestoproveit



Series: A Wound Across My Memory [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anger, Blow Jobs, Cunnilingus, Dirty Talk, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Happy Ending, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Friendship, Hair-pulling, Mildly Dubious Consent, Molly Makes Bad Choices, Rimming, Stalking, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-22
Updated: 2014-11-10
Packaged: 2018-01-13 06:00:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1215304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/picturestoproveit/pseuds/picturestoproveit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly's engagement is over, but her headaches have only begun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Based off this tumblr prompt: "After Molly's broken it off with Tom, he tries to come back to win her affections but gets rather aggressive after she says no. Sherlock's there to help her." 
> 
> Again, what should have been a drabble has turned into four chapters of angst and feelings and smut. Just like most things in my life do.

You saw my pain, washed out in the rain

And broken glass, saw the blood run from my veins

But you saw no fault, no cracks in my heart

And you knelt beside, my hope torn apart

~ Mumford & Sons,  _The Ghosts That We Knew_ _  
_

* * *

“ _Hey Molls, it’s me…listen, I know you said that we shouldn’t –“_

Delete.

 

“ _Me again, Molls_. _Just to let you know, I happen to have an extra ticket for Ellie Goulding at the O2 in March, I know how much you lo-“_

Delete.

 

“ _Could at least have the decency to call me back, you know. Need I remind you that we were ready to spend the rest of our lives tog-“_

_Delete._  

 

_“You think you can do better than me? You can’t. And you honestly think he’s going to come around and finally notice you? HE WON’T. You have NO IDEA HOW MUCH –“_

 

Fucking  _DELETE._

Molly Hooper tossed her mobile onto her desk in weary frustration, watching dispassionately as it clattered across the wooden surface before sliding to the floor. She closed her eyes, grimacing softly at the tension coiling at her temples, the dull throbbing behind her eyes beginning to take on a much sharper quality.

Lowering her head to the desk, Molly began to bang her forehead gently and repeatedly against the cool wood. It was the only thing left to do, really. Smack her head against a solid surface until her problems disappeared. By that point, it was as good a plan as any.

Molly focused on her breathing, timing her inhalations and exhalations with the pleasant _thunk_ of her skull thumping off her desk until Tom’s voice eventually disappeared from her thoughts. Her relief was momentary, however. As if on schedule, another voice popped into her head, equally uninvited and possibly even more infuriating.

 

“ _Sorry your engagement’s over, though I’m fairly grateful for the lack of a ring.”_

 

 Oh, bloody HELL. _Fuck, shit DELETE_.

 

“Okay there, Molly?”

Molly snapped her head up and found herself staring at the kind, worried face of her supervisor, Mike Stamford. “OH, god, Mike, I -I’m sorry,” she blushed. “I hope I wasn’t being too loud, I was just…” Molly’s voice trailed off. “I was just…slamming my head against the desk,” she finished lamely.

Mike cleared his throat, his features a mask of concern. “Yeah, I can see that,” he replied, leaning against the open door of her office. “It’s none of my business, Molly, I won’t pretend it is, so I won’t bother you to ask,” he continued, not unkindly. “Why don’t you take the rest of the night off? It’ll give you a nice, long weekend. Marcus is looking for more hours anyhow, I’ll have him take over the last two cases.”

Molly immediately protested. “Mike, no, I’m fine, really I’m fine,” she babbled. “It’s just a headache, it’ll be gone as long as –“

_-as long as my ex-fiance can somehow find a way to drive his car off a steep cliff-_

“- I just get some caffeine into me.” Molly twisted her mouth into what she hoped was a passible imitation of a smile, though Mike’s furrowed brow quickly informed her that her poker face did, in fact, need some work.

“I’m not just talking about today, Molly. You haven’t been your usual self for months, “ Mike replied softly. Molly immediately opened her mouth to object, and then, just as quickly, shut it when she realized she really had no valid rebuttal to his statement.

“I want you to go home, Dr. Hooper,” Mike maintained gently. “Right now. Please.”

Molly slumped her shoulders, finally giving up the charade she had been performing since her personal life had fallen spectacularly to shit months prior. “Mike…I am so sorry,” she said, a heated and shameful flush creeping up her neck, coloring her fair cheeks a deep scarlet. “I…I’m sorry, I don’t know what….”

 ... _I don’t even know what to apologize for anymore._

Mike held up his hand. “Like I said, Molly. You don’t have to explain anything to me. Go home, get some rest, and sort out what you have to sort out. If you need to talk, my door is always open.”

Molly cleared her throat, feeling the light lump behind her tonsils rising and falling as she swallowed quietly. “Thank you, Mike,” she said softly, lowering her lashes as tears prickled in the corners of her eyes. He nodded and smiled, lightly closing her office door behind him.

Molly spent some quality time staring blankly at her hands, folded neatly in her lap, before rising from her seat to collect her bag and coat. She wound her scarf around her neck as she reached down to pick up her mobile from the floor.

She slid the lock screen open, and immediately wished she hadn’t.

 

_You have two (2) new messages._

A unique mixture of anger, annoyance, guilt, and despair swelled in Molly’s chest. Tears spilled down her cheeks as she quickly opened her voicemail folder and deleted both messages before even listening to a single word.

* * *

It wasn’t long after John Watson’s wedding when things began to crumble. Naturally. 

It wasn’t that Tom wasn’t sweet, or kind, or loving. He was all of those things. He just wasn’t... _enough._ And for all of her bravado about moving on, she was, in fact, well aware of the reason why.

_Six feet of tall, dark, and not dead. That’s why._

And while Tom may not have been a genius, he also wasn’t stupid. He didn’t even pretend to be shocked the day Molly had tearfully removed her ring and placed it on the kitchen table between them. He had simply shot her a sad, knowing smile, kissed her on the cheek, and left her flat without another word.

It was exactly two weeks and three days later when Molly found herself furiously snapping a pair of latex gloves from her fingers and unceremoniously smacking Sherlock Holmes across the face. Repeatedly. And she would have been lying to herself if she said the positive toxicology screen was the only reason for her sudden, violent outburst. For the rest of that day, she only felt the slightest hints of shame, intermingled with a glorious amount of catharsis.

In that briefest of times, Molly had felt light. She had felt free. She had felt like maybe, just maybe, she actually _was_  over Sherlock Holmes and his ridiculous bullshit. Finally. 

 

And then the fucking arsehole went out and got shot that very night.

 

It was Greg Lestrade who delivered the news. The weary inspector had tried in vain to mask the pain and fear in his voice as he ushered Molly from the morgue, explaining the situation as they hustled down the halls of Barts and out into heavy London night. She scarcely remembered the car ride to St. Thomas’ Hospital, though she was dimly aware that Greg had been driving at full speed, with lights and sirens, the city blurring and swirling past her from the other side of the passenger's window. 

Before long, Molly was numbly crossing the bright corridor of the Doulton Cardiothoracic Ward and standing in the doorway of room eighteen. Her feet were seemingly glued to the floor just outside the darkened room, and it was there, in that threshold, where she remained. She had fixed her dull gaze on the pale, comatose figure in the bed, nodding occasionally as the nurse and surgeon detailed Sherlock's wounds to her and Greg.

It wasn't as if Molly needed anyone to tell her what kind of injuries he had sustained as a result of that gunshot wound to his right upper quadrant. Her eyes had fallen  to the large, occlusive dressing on his torso, and that was all the information she needed to know. She had immediately pictured the damage as it would have looked in real time, experiencing the injury almost as if she were the bullet itself: the hot lead bursting through the thin dermal layers, splintering the base of the seventh rib and shredding the intercostal muscle before then nicking the inferior vena cava and lodging snuggly in upper lobe of the liver.

The fact that he was alive was nothing short of a bloody fucking miracle. 

She never did enter Sherlock’s room that night, nor did she remember how long she stood there, staring at his immobile body, watching the gentle rise and fall of his wounded chest as the faint glow of the cardiac monitor bathed his features in eerie blues and greens.  Eventually, Greg had gently guided her away from the ward and back to his car. He must have driven her home, but she had little recollection of that as well. Time had seemingly stopped in Molly Hooper’s world, and along with it, her abilities to speak, think, and experience any semblance of emotion. 

Molly really had no proper excuse for what happened next. She had been standing in front of the door to her flat, keys in hand, ready to enter….and then, suddenly, she wasn't. Her mind had shut down, and apparently her body had plans of it's own. It was the only logical explanation. Why else would she find herself knocking on Tom’s door at two in the morning, and practically launching herself at him as he blinked at her in sleepy confusion? 

In retrospect, showing up at Tom's flat in such a numb, hollow state had most certainly been Molly's first mistake. That much was a no-brainer. 

The poor bastard had barely stood a chance as Molly frantically tugged his pants off and fell to her knees, taking him deep into her mouth right there in the hallway. At some point, he had gasped her name, partly in shock, partly in ecstasy. But at the sound of his voice, Molly had stopped her ministrations abruptly.

“Shut up,” she had practically growled. “Not another word. Not another. Fucking. Word,” she continued, punctuating each word with a corresponding sharp tug on his cock. She stood and grabbed the sides of his head roughly, pushing his face down to hers until his lips were crushed against her greedy mouth. She sucked and nipped at his lower lip as she forcefully guided him backwards down the hallway and into the bedroom. They both toppled onto his bed in a graceless heap, and Molly practically tore her clothes from her body before pinning Tom beneath her weight and impaling herself on his dick with impressive force.

Molly fucked him mindlessly, holding the headboard for support as she drove herself downward on his cock, over and over again until the tension in her body finally broke, exploding from her dripping core and ratcheting up her spine. She leaned down and screamed her release into his mouth, cursing and shaking as the last of the tremors finally subsided.

Molly had realized her terrible lapse in judgment almost immediately after the final remnants of her orgasm faded, give or take five seconds. 

She had launched herself from Tom's bed as if it were on fire, scrambling for her discarded clothes and blurting out nearly incoherent apologies. In return, he had reached out in desperation and snatched her wrist, perhaps a bit too roughly, and pleaded with her to come back to bed, begging her to never leave him, to stay with him forever. In her heated and frantic state, Molly had pulled her arm away from him sharply and lost her balance, toppling against his dresser and sending the flimsy mirror crashing to the floor.

The shattering glass must have acted as a catalyst of sorts, for they immediately launched into the fight they should have been having all along. The fight that they somehow managed to avoid the night of the Watsons wedding.

Tom had leapt out of bed and screamed at her, calling her a slut and a delusional whore. Molly threw her shoe at him and screamed some colorful adjectives of her own, nearly all of them being a variant of the phrase "bloody fucking moron."

Tom had informed Molly that she was going to die alone waiting for Sherlock Holmes to come around, and that subsequently, her cat would likely eat her body.

Molly had recommended that Tom find a ground floor flat when he finally did find someone to marry, lest his new bride attempt to throw herself out of a window during one of his massively boring rugby stories. 

The back-and-forth continued on for several more minutes as Molly struggled to simultaneously pull her clothes on and hurl filthy insults at her former fiancé, while Tom followed her around the bedroom and experimented with different ways of calling her a whoring cunt.  Thankfully, she was able to leave the flat before things escalated any further. The last thing she had needed on that night was to be arrested for a domestic. 

When Molly had awakened the next morning, on her sofa with her head partially buried beneath the loose cushions, she was struck with a horrible sense of guilt and shame. She could scarcely believe she had acted in such a manner. She had been cruel. She had been self-serving. She had been remorseless. 

In short, she had been Sherlock Holmes. 

After brewing a cup of tea, Molly had sat down at the kitchen table and flipped open her laptop. She composed a heartfelt, apologetic email, in which she took full responsibility for her actions the previous night, and the fight that had followed as a result. She wished Tom nothing but the best, and concluded by saying she hoped they could still remain friends. 

Molly had proofread her work carefully. Satisfied that it sounded true and sincere, she had typed in Tom's email address and clicked "Send". 

 

And that was her second mistake. 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Guilt, thy name is Molly Hooper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I may have lied. It's looking like five chapters at this point. This one is a little dull, I apologize for that. Never fear, there's banter and smut on the horizon.

It started with a single text message.

 

_I’m sorry too. Can we meet for coffee or something?_

 

Molly, still hung-over with guilt, had immediately agreed, though she wasn’t necessarily keen on the idea of having to face Tom again.  But it was the right thing to do. The adult thing. And she hadn’t just been paying lip service when she said they hoped they could remain friends. Tom and Molly had shared a relaxed companionship that, while may not have set the world ablaze with unbridled passion, was still pleasant and enjoyable.

They had met at the same small coffee shop where they spent many lazy Sunday mornings as a couple. The first five minutes of their meeting had been terribly awkward, as Molly had assumed it would be. She had started to apologize profusely, only for Tom to wave it off. They had sat in an uncomfortable silence for what seemed like hours, though it was likely only thirty seconds or so: Molly nervously fiddling with handle of her coffee mug while Tom stared blankly out the window.

Eventually, they had loosened up enough to share some small talk, and as the meeting rolled on, Molly found herself feeling more at ease, even enjoying herself at times. _Maybe this can work,_ she had thought happily. _Maybe we can actually be friends._

Ten minutes later, Tom was leaning across the table and attempting to kiss her.

_There goes that idea._

So, for the third time in as many weeks, Molly had been tasked with breaking Tom’s heart again. He left the café in a hurry after that, and Molly had sat there for quite some time, feeling like the most horrid human being on the planet.

Often in her thirty-four years on the planet, she had wished that for once, _she_ could play the role of the heart breaker, instead of the one who always had her heart ripped to shreds.

So it was ironic, really, how _nothing_ could have prepared her for how miserable, disgusting, and low she felt. To know that she had caused that uniquely exquisite pain in another person…the very pain she had experienced so many times herself…it was nearly unbearable.

After a long shower and an even longer cry, Molly had decided that the least cruel avenue would be to cut all ties with Tom completely. It was the best decision, for both of them. No one knew better than she how impossible it was to get over someone when they won’t go away. When they shoot you lingering glances, when they invite you out to dinner, when they invade your personal space and kiss you on the cheek (or, you know, _practically_ the corner of your mouth)…

Physically shaking the thoughts out of her head, Molly had sat down to write one more email. She reread her work over and over, and no matter how much soft language she used, her words had still sounded so callous and cold. Defeated, she had hit “send”, cried some more, and prayed that both she and Tom could find peace in this situation, sooner rather than later.

The week that followed was dull, cold, drizzly, and relatively quiet. Molly had plodded through her shifts in the morgue somewhat sluggishly. By Thursday, she still hadn’t received a response from Tom, and by that point, she had assumed that she probably wouldn’t. Her heart had ached at that thought, surprisingly. Even though her email contained all the language of finality, she still didn’t have the feeling of closure she thought she would.

On Friday, Greg had found her in the cafeteria at Barts, told her that Sherlock had escaped from his hospital bed, and frantically demanded that she tell him where his “bolt-holes” were.

Molly stared at Greg languidly for a few seconds before telling him about her spare bedroom…then she realized that Greg had actually been inside her flat before, and knew bloody well that Molly did not have a spare bedroom.

“Well, my bedroom… we agreed he needed the space,” she explained placidly. She was running on very little sleep, very little food, and by that point, she couldn’t give two fucks what Greg Lestrade, or anyone for that matter, thought about who she chose to share her bedroom with.

Greg’s mouth had fallen open slightly at that, and Molly had just shrugged and sipped her tea. _Let him wonder,_ she thought.

That night, Sherlock was admitted back into intensive care with roughly 800 milliliters of blood in his peritoneal cavity. According to Greg, the portal vein had ruptured and the “stupid son of a bitch almost died on the operating room table _again.”_

On Saturday, Molly only left her bed to feed Toby and use the loo.

On Sunday, the text messages from Tom started.

The first few were pleasant, apologetic, understanding. They actually had brought Molly a little bit of peace.

Then he started begging to see her again.

Molly had held her ground, surprisingly, for she was so used to bending for people, often times at the sake of her own happiness. And to be quite honest, if she hadn’t been so exhausted, both physically and mentally from the events of the past week, she might have given in. But as it had stood, she just didn’t have the energy to bend anymore.

Molly had replied to his texts as kindly as the written word would allow, reiterating that she believed it to be for the best that they not see each other again.

For the two weeks that followed, Molly’s phone was silent. She was relieved. Her routine had finally started getting back on track, and for the first time in over a month, she had begun to feel like her old self again.

Then came the phone calls.

Molly had made the mistake of answering the first one. It was three in the morning on a Thursday, and she had just finally fallen asleep. Her first thought, as she had dumbly stared at the vibrating mobile on her bedside table was _Sherlock._  As was typical when she first awoke.

Tom had clearly been drinking. He demanded to see her. Molly broke through her hazy confusion enough to insist that he go home and sleep it off. He then had proceeded to call her a bitch, a slut, a dyke ( _God, at this point, I wish I was,_ she thought in bitter amusement.)

Molly had simply sighed and agreed with him, hanging up on him while he was in mid-rant. She had shut her phone completely off and managed to get a few more hours of sleep before her alarm sounded.

 

When she had turned her phone back on, she had twenty text messages, and three voicemails.

 

Molly’s heart at leapt into her throat as she stared at her mobile screen. Waves of nausea rolled in her stomach and she had held her breath, debating whether or not to listen to the voicemails or read the texts.

Her curiosity had won out in the end, and she spent nearly twenty minutes reading and listening to the rantings of a drunk man. When she was finished, her face was soaked with tears and her chest ached fiercely. From that point on, she vowed to just ignore any and all calls from her former fiancé.

And that’s what she tried to do. She really did. But part of her had still felt massively guilty for her actions, and responsible for the pain that they had caused. So it was in the spirit of penance, perhaps, that she occasionally listened to his voicemails.

Sometimes they were sweet. Sometimes they were angry. Most often, they were just casual requests to “hang out”.

Molly would just listen and delete, listen and delete. So much so that it became part of her daily routine: _wake, shower, breakfast, listen and delete, feed Toby, ride the tube, listen and delete, work, lunch break, listen and delete, listen and delete, delete, delete, work, home, dinner, listen and delete, book, wine, bed, listen and delete, listen and delete, phone off, sleep._

It was after two weeks of this routine when Mike had made his gentle recommendations that Molly get her shit together. And she knew he was right. She had been flogging herself.

She had lead someone on. She had used his body in a moment of profound weakness. She had made a mistake. _She had made a very human mistake._

As Molly stood in her tiny office, she finally made the decision to forgive herself.

In the end, it was actually rather easy. It felt as if the guilt and self-loathing physically seeped from her body, leaving her feeling lighter and stronger than she had in months.

Smiling slightly to herself, Molly pocketed her mobile and tightened her scarf has she headed for the doors of Barts and into the cold November air, reveling in her newly reclaimed strength and energy.

Which was good, because when she entered the dark hallway of her building and found Tom sitting in front of the door to her flat, she needed all the strength and energy she could muster.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life lesson #356: You are never truly in danger when there is a deus ex machina using your flat as a bolt-hole.

Molly froze as Tom unfolded his long, lanky body and rose up from the floor.

“Just listen to me,” he said hastily, raising his hands in acquiescence.  Molly took a small, retreating step backward, the sound of blood rushing through her ears as her heart thumped earnestly against her ribcage. Of all the emotions she had experienced since her and Tom had ended their relationship, _fear_ had not been one of them. Not until now.

“Tom,” she said, her mouth dry and her voice weak. “Please…”

“No, Molly – I’m not… look, I know. I know it’s over, “ he stammered. Molly held her breath as she watched him carefully, remaining perfectly still and silent as Tom exhaled and dropped his arms to his sides. “I just want to help you,” he continued, his voice soft and pleading.

Molly stared at him, dumbfounded. “You want to _what_?” she asked in confusion.

“Please, just hear me out –“

“I don’t think I’m the one who needs help, Tom,” she cut him off quietly.

“No, but you do,” he said, advancing slowly. Molly instinctively tensed her body and tried to take another step backward, only to feel her shoulder blades connect bluntly with the wall. It was then that she realized, with no small amount of dread, that he basically had her cornered in the small, narrow corridor in front of her flat.

“Really?” Molly snapped boldly, trying to ignore her hammering heart and weak knees. She drew herself up to full height, more of a symbolic gesture than anything, as Tom was still nearly a foot taller than her.  “And what exactly are you going to help me with?” she continued, the slight waver in her voice the only thing that belied her bravado.

“I don’t want to see you throw your life away. For him, “ Tom replied softly, lovingly. He reached out to cup her cheek, but she turned her face away sharply and gave a bitter laugh.

“That’s quite noble of you, Tom,“ Molly retorted, “but I don’t think you have anything to worry about. Now, if you’ll excuse me…” She shifted her keys to her right hand and attempted to skirt past him to her flat.

Tom’s arm quickly shot out, stopping Molly in her tracks. “I’m serious, Molly,“ he said, planting both hands against the wall, effectively pinning her in place. He leaned down until his face was inches away from hers. “He’s a criminal,” he hissed. “He’s a druggie psychopath. He will _never_ have feelings for you. He can’t love you like I do. NO ONE can love you like I do.”

Molly’s chest seized painfully, panic creeping up her throat. “Tom,” she said as loudly as she could manage, which at the moment, was barely above a whisper. “Let me go.”

“You need me, Molly,” Tom continued, his voice rising. “You need me to protect you from people like him.” He released the wall and dropped his hands to her upper arms, squeezing firmly. Molly gave an involuntary cry.

“This world is cruel, people are cruel, and you’re too gentle, too weak. You need someone who can take care of you, “ he persisted, shaking her sharply. Molly gasped as her the back of her head banged against the wall

“Let go of me, NOW!” she shrieked, hoping the volume of her voice would somehow snap Tom out of whatever madness he was currently experiencing.

 _No such luck_. Tom squeezed her arms tighter, and Molly cried out in pain.  “ NOT UNTIL YOU LISTEN TO ME!” he yelled, again pushing her against the wall. Molly struggled in his vice-like grip, waves of panic crashing over her body.

“Tom, PLEASE,” she cried. “Please, you’re hurting me, PLEASE-“

What happened next was a blur. One moment, Molly was completely restrained, feeling Tom’s body pressed painfully against hers. The next moment, Tom was being slammed face-first into the wall next to her, blood spurting from his nose and lip as he crumpled to a heap at her feet.

“Ah, sweetheart! You’re home early!” a familiar voice boomed cheerfully.

Molly snapped her head up and gaped silently at Sherlock as he stepped away from Tom and slid his arm around her waist.  He grinned at her. “I hope you’re hungry, I just ordered in from Chen’s.”

Molly stared at him dazedly. “Uhhh….” she managed to squeak, before falling speechless once again, the fear and anxiety she had been experiencing moments prior giving way to raw confusion.

The door to Molly’s flat was wide open, and the warm light spilling out into the hallway illuminated the scene before her: Tom, on his hands and knees, spitting mouthfuls of blood onto the hardwood floor; and Sherlock, calm and relaxed, his shirtsleeves rolled up and his strong arm wrapped protectively around Molly’s shaking frame.

“I would invite you to join us, Tom, but unfortunately, I only ordered enough food for two,” Sherlock continued cheerfully, addressing Tom’s groaning and bloodied form on the floor. “And you know our Molly – we wouldn’t want to get between her and her spring rolls, now, would we?” he said fondly, squeezing Molly’s waist affectionately as he drew her snuggly against his side.

Tom pinched the bridge of his nose as blood poured down his face. He stared up at Molly and Sherlock in shock. “You’re- the two of you… are? …” His voice trailed off into a moan of pain as fresh blood flowed from his split lip.

“Together?” Sherlock finished for him, his eyes wide and innocent. “Yes, in fact, we are.” Molly stiffened at that, causing Sherlock to give her hip a small, reassuring squeeze. “Your deductive skills have considerably sharpened since the meat dagger incident, Tom,” he chuckled. “You’ve been practicing, haven’t you?”

Suddenly, the atmosphere in the hallway became thick and dangerous, as Sherlock’s hand fell away from Molly’s waist and he crouched down, placing his pale face inches away from Tom’s blood-soaked one. “You are never to have any form of contact with my pathologist again,” Sherlock stated calmly, each word dictated with his typical precision and dripping with quiet menace. Molly remained frozen in place, scarcely breathing as she stared down at the two men on the floor.

“The only reason why I haven’t phoned Scotland Yard is because I know that Molly wouldn’t want me to,” Sherlock continued softly. “You were right about two things – she _is_ gentle and this world is cruel. But do not, for one second, mistake her kindness for weakness. Molly Hooper is the strongest person I have ever had the good fortune to meet. She doesn’t need us. We are the ones who need her.”

At that, Molly swallowed audibly, and despite her best intentions, felt hot tears spring to her eyes. That very well may have been the kindest thing anyone had ever said about her, and the fact that it had come from the mouth of Sherlock Holmes was touching (albeit shocking) beyond belief.

Sherlock paused briefly before leaning towards Tom ominously, stopping when his mouth was right next to Tom’s ear. Whatever he whispered next was much too quiet for Molly to hear, but judging by the panicked look on Tom’s face, the message had certainly been delivered loud and clear.

Tom scrambled gracelessly to his feet, pressing his hand to his bleeding and broken face. He glanced at Molly, his eyes full of pain, both mental and physical. For a brief moment, it looked like he was going to say something to her, but he quickly reconsidered as Sherlock rose from his position on the floor and placed a strong hand on the small of Molly’s back. Without a word, Tom spun on his heel and stumbled his way out of the building.

The front door had barely swung shut before Sherlock abruptly dropped his hand from Molly’s back. “I wasn’t kidding about the food,” he said casually as he turned and walked back through the threshold of Molly’s flat, disappearing into her small foyer. Molly just stared after him and stayed where she was, numb with shock and still fighting to process what had just transpired. She glanced at the wall across from her front door and felt her stomach lurch at the sight of the fresh blood smeared down the wallpaper.

Sherlock poked his head out from the doorframe, his eyes filled with that faint annoyance Molly had become so accustomed to in the past. “You aren’t going to stand out there all night, are you?” he sighed in irritation. “Contrary to what I may have said a few moments ago, I’m not above finishing off the spring rolls myself.” Molly peered at him cautiously, and seeing no other option, followed him into her tiny flat, closing the door and locking it tightly behind her.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chinese food, alcohol, explanations, and a bit of sexual tension.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. One chapter to go :)

 Molly stepped into her small foyer and shut the door quietly, blinking rapidly in against the harsh fluorescent light. She shrugged out of her oversized parka and turned to hang the garment on her brass coatrack, noting (with no small amount of distress) that her hands were shaking. Badly. She pressed her back against the faded wallpaper and fought to regain her composure, squeezing her eyelids against the stinging tears, willing them not to spill down her pale cheeks.

Several deep, gulping breaths later - when she felt that she could trust herself not to crumble into a sobbing, snotting mess- Molly opened her eyes and cautiously continued down the hallway, following the aroma of Chinese food around the corner and into her small galley kitchen.

There stood Sherlock, leaning over the counter and heaping a massive spoonful of fried rice onto one of Molly’s floral-patterned plates. “This one is yours, I ate already,“ Sherlock explained, grabbing a handful of spring rolls and lining them around the edge of the teeming dish. He glanced at her and stopped, his expression suddenly unsure. “I, ah – I’m never sure how much people are actually supposed to eat,” he confessed, his eyes ticking back and forth between the enormous pile of food on the plate and Molly’s faintly amused expression.

Molly offered him a tight-lipped smile. “It’s okay, Sherlock,” she said as she squeezed past him. “On a good day, I’d probably eat all of that and come back for seconds.” She reached up and opened the cupboard door that housed her meager liquor collection. “But today’s not really a good day,” she muttered, unscrewing the cap of Jameson and taking a short swig off the nearly full bottle.

She hissed softly as the whisky burned its way down her throat, and reached into a second cupboard to pull out two lowball glasses. “So,” Molly began, as she filled each glass with a healthy portion of the amber liquor, “are you going to tell me how you broke in this time?”

Even though her back was turned, Molly could practically see Sherlock stiffen in defense.  “Is it my fault that you consistently fail to properly secure your flat?” he snapped indignantly.

Molly turned and handed him a glass of whisky, which he grudgingly accepted. “Is it my fault that a genius-level sociopath consistently breaks into my flat in the first place?” she shot back, eyebrows raised. She took a sip from her own glass and coughed slightly. “You know what...don’t answer that. Because it _is_ my fault,” she glowered. Her shoulders slumped. “Everything is my fault.”

Sherlock studied her face in silence before taking a tentative sip of his drink, scrunching his nose slightly as he swallowed. “Self-pity doesn’t suit you, Dr. Hooper,” he said coolly, staring into his glass.

Molly smirked. “Really, Sherlock?” she responded, her voice equally as cold and measured. “What _does_ suit me, then? Blind devotion? Passiveness?” She took a small step forward and stopped when her body was no more than a centimeter away from his. She tilted her head up and locked her stony gaze on his blue eyes. “Obedience?” she offered, a hint of spite creeping into her tone.

Sherlock stared back, his eyes flashing briefly. Molly was suddenly quite aware of how hot and crowded her little kitchen had become. She lowered her eyes to his throat, where she could see his Adam’s apple bob almost imperceptibly as he stifled a small gulp.

“I’m sorry,” Molly said, shaking her head sharply and stepping back. She looked back to his face and found that his eyes had softened. “That was…that was a bit rude of me,” she conceded, dropping her head as she turned toward the sitting room. She sipped her whisky and walked over to the sofa, plopping down on her favourite, well-worn spot. She sank back into the familiar comfort of the plush cushions and exhaled a slow, shaky breath, rubbing her hand listlessly over her closed eyes.

A few quiet seconds ticked by before Molly felt the sofa dip. She turned and opened her eyes, watching as Sherlock settled in next to her.  He stretched his long legs out in front of him and leaned back, resting his head on the very back of the cushion. “Don’t be sorry,” he said wearily, his eyelids fluttering shut. “I deserved much worse than that.”

“You just saved me from …well, from a not- good situation,” Molly replied softly. “I should be more gracious.”

Sherlock made a soft noise at the back of his throat. “Molly Hooper, I could rescue you a thousand times over, and it still wouldn’t be enough,” he murmured, almost to himself.

Molly stared into the drink in her lap. “Enough,” she parroted quietly. She smiled sadly as she brought the glass to her lips, finishing the whisky in one sour gulp. She leaned forward slowly, placing the empty tumbler on the edge of her cocktail table. “Sherlock…you don’t have to keep…I mean…” Molly’s voice trailed off.  She sighed and flopped back into the cushions. “You don’t have to keep thanking me, “ she blurted out at the ceiling. 

She could feel Sherlock’s eyes burning into the side of her face, but she refused to look at him. “What I mean is…you don’t owe me anything,” she continued, her voice softer, tinged with sadness. She closed her eyes again, the warmth of the whisky beginning to spread through her torso, relaxing her limbs and taking the edge off of the tension in her head. “Why are you here, Sherlock?” she asked quietly. “We haven’t spoken in months. Why now?”

Sherlock cleared his throat. “John needs…some space,” he said carefully. He sighed quietly and glanced at her. “He’s back at Baker Street,” he explained. “He and Mary are having some…difficulties.” He brought the whisky to his lips for another slow sip.

 “Yes, I can imagine that her shooting you would likely put a strain on their marriage,” Molly replied casually.

Sherlock coughed sharply and brought the back of his hand to his mouth, catching the small amount of alcohol that had escaped from his lips. “What the hell gave you that idea?” he sputtered. He caught his breath and stared at her in shock.

“It’s not that difficult to figure,” Molly responded. She drew her legs up onto the sofa and tucked them beneath her body. “You were facing the shooter straight on. You saw them, yet you can’t identify them? I find that hard to believe.”

“Maybe they were wearing a mask,” Sherlock responded, regaining his composure. He turned his body toward her and leaned forward, studying her face.

“Maybe they were,” Molly answered mildly. “But you would still be able to deduce _something_ about them. This is _you_ we’re talking about.”

Sherlock squinted at her, his expression a mixture of curiousity and something Molly couldn’t quite place. “It was dark,” he countered, continuing to stare.

Molly shrugged. “So?” she asked. “You’re telling me you’ve never made a deduction in the dark before?” she said slyly, a slow smile toying with the corners of her mouth.

Sherlock cleared his throat and shifted his weight back, his cheeks flushing faintly, much to Molly’s delight. “Yes…well...yes. Of course I have,” he replied tautly. Molly grinned at his obvious discomfort, and decided to let him off the hook, for the time being.

“So your, ahem, _fiancée_ helps you and John break into an office,” Molly continued, “and then you’re promptly shot, surrounded by the key members of the Watson wedding party… all except one, of course.  A week later, you escape from hospital and nearly bleed to death in the middle of a John and Mary ‘domestic’, as Mrs. Hudson put it.”

Sherlock turned his head and studied her face in silence, his expression unreadable.

She took a deep breath and tucked a long strand of honey colored hair being one ear. “I know you. And I know the look that you get on your face when you think you’re protecting someone.”

“Do you now?” Sherlock responded mildly. He raised his eyebrows skeptically, but not before Molly caught a brief flash of (begrudging) admiration in his eyes.

Molly nodded. “It’s the same look you had on your face that day in the lab. The day you looked sad.” She sank back against the armrest and brought her knees up to her chest. “It’s the same look you had on your face the day you told me you hoped I’d be very happy with Tom,” she finished softly.

Sherlock said nothing as he turned his attention back to the drink in his hands. Molly watched him closely, resting her chin on her knees. “Did you know?” she asked quietly.

“Hmm?” Sherlock hummed, swirling the whisky slowly in the glass. Molly hugged her legs closer to her torso. “Did you know that Tom was…that he was like _that?_ ” she clarified, her voice catching a bit on the last syllables.

Sherlock looked at her. “ I knew he was co-dependent,” he stated matter-of-factly. “But I didn’t realize to what extent.” He drew in a sharp breath, and instantly, his expression changed to one of guilt. “And I should have. But I deliberately did not probe any further. I meant what I said. You do deserve happiness. I didn’t want to ruin that.” he explained, his gaze soft and remorseful. “All things being equal, I would say that I’ve ruined enough things for one lifetime.” He shot her a small, bitter smile, one that did not reach his eyes.

Molly didn’t know what to say to that, so she chose silence instead. Sherlock closed his eyes and returned his head to the back of the sofa. They spent the next several moments in not-entirely-uncomfortable quiet before Molly spoke again.

“So…did you really make her wear the hat?” she asked innocently, shooting Sherlock a sideways glance. His jaw twitched, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips. He took a slow, deliberate sip of whisky. “I was wondering when that was going to come up,” he drawled, his tone calculated, indifferent.

Molly couldn’t help but smile. “Just curious,” she replied. She reclined back, stretching her legs out across Sherlock’s lap.

Sherlock’s hand fell to Molly’s knee in a natural manner as he tipped his head back and drained the last of his drink. He leaned forward, over her legs, and placed the empty glass firmly on the table. Turning his body toward hers slightly, he slowly began to run his hand up her thigh, his expression suddenly dark and a little bit dangerous.

“Molly,” Sherlock murmured, his voice even lower than usual. Molly couldn’t help but shiver as his hand came to rest on her inner thigh. He clearly took note of her involuntary shudder, his impossibly blue eyes flaring in smug triumph. He leaned in slightly, bringing his face even with hers, before he continued.

 

“Why don’t you ask me what you _really_ want to know?”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mild confrontation and not- so- mild porn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I updated the tags to be a little more specific, in case some of this stuff isn't your division.

“Did you fuck her?”

The question tumbled from Molly’s lips with an uncharacteristic bluntness. Sherlock raised his eyebrows in brief surprise before composing himself. “That would depend on your definition of ‘fuck’,” he responded, leaning away. He dropped his eyes and watched his fingers, moving them up Molly’s inner thigh and lightly tracing the zipper of her trousers. He smirked. “If you ask Janine, she’d probably tell you that I fucked her rather harshly.”

“You did. And I don’t blame her for selling you out, either,” Molly said as evenly as possible. The heat from Sherlock’s hand was beginning to radiate to her core, though he was barely touching her. She squirmed slightly. It was a tiny movement, but one that he clearly noticed. He smiled smugly to himself, moving his fingers upward until they rested on the top button of her trousers.

Molly pulse quickened. “Don’t changed the subject,” she muttered, her hips lifting almost imperceptibly toward his hand.

“No. I didn’t _fuck_ her,” Sherlock replied, maneuvering his fingers deftly as he slowly unfastened her button. He dropped one fingertip to her zip, flicking at the metal tab with an infuriating casualness.

“Did you touch her?”

“Yes.”

“How much?”

“We kissed on several occasions. I touched her breasts and her backside.”

“Over her clothes or under?”

“Under.”

Molly’s stomach flipped, and she tried desperately to keep that sourness from reaching her face. Judging by the look in Sherlock’s eyes, she was less than successful. _Shit._

She cleared her throat, acutely aware of the flush that was quickly creeping up her chest.  

“Did she… touch you?” Molly continued, silently damning the sudden hoarseness in her voice.

Pause. “Yes.”

“…where?”

Sherlock exhaled impatiently. “She touched my heart, Molly,” he retorted, rolling his eyes. “She fondled my soul.”

Molly glared at him in silence.

“ALRIGHT!” Sherlock snapped. He blew out a slow breath and softened his gaze. “Alright,” he repeated, his voice lower. He cleared his throat and stared at his hand, still toying with her fly.

“I allowed her to bring me to orgasm two times via manual stimulation,” he offered reluctantly, almost painfully.  “And that was the extent of it, _I swear_.”

Molly couldn’t help but gape. “And you never returned the favor?” she asked incredulously.

“I…well, no,” he admitted.

“Let me get this straight. A woman gave you two _unreciprocated_ hand jobs and she STILL agreed to marry you?” Molly snorted. “Jesus Christ.”

Sherlock shrugged. “Sex doesn’t a relationship make, Molly,” he said flippantly.

“Yes, I should know that, shouldn’t I?” she retorted. “Though I suppose that two hand jobs and a fake proposal is a _much_ better way to build a relationship than two nights of throwaway sex.” Molly shifted her pelvis again, the tension in her lower body becoming uncomfortable. She closed her eyes and inhaled sharply. “How could you do that to her?” she blurted suddenly. She could feel Sherlock stiffen. She kept her eyes closed, not trusting herself to look at him. “How can you…use people like you do?” she continued, hoping he was only picking up on the anger in her voice, and not the hurt. “Just because sex doesn’t mean anything to you doesn’t make it meaningless to everyone else!”

“I already told you that I didn’t have-“

“THAT’S NOT THE POINT SHERLOCK. It’s not even about the sex! You trick people into thinking you care and then you LEAVE. And then when you come back, you act like the _...caring…_ didn’t happen, when it DID, and I know it doesn’t matter to you, but it _matters_ to _…_ to _people_. OKAY?” Molly felt tears begin to form, much to her dismay. _No. No. I’m done crying over him. I’M DONE._ She flung her forearm across her eyes and fought to regain control, cursing herself for being so weak - not so much for the tears, but rather for the way her body was currently burning for him, still desperate for his touch, despite everything she had just said about his character.

The air hung thick and heavy in the small flat. “We aren’t talking about Janine anymore, are we?” Sherlock asked quietly.

“No, you daft prick. We’re talking about YOU.”

They both fell silent again.  Molly’s heart fluttered incessantly, and she was torn between the hurt she felt toward the man who was ( _still_ ) fondling the zip of her trousers, and the slow, insistent throb between her legs that was threatening to reach critical mass if _someone or something didn’t fucking touch her soon_.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock murmured.

Molly removed her arm from her face and opened her eyes. “But you aren’t,” she said dully. Sherlock turned his face and met her gaze, his eyes bright and pleading.

“I know what I did was wrong. To Janine. I know,” he began. “But here’s the harsh truth, Molly Hooper: I don’t care about her. I’m sorry, but I don’t.” He took a deep breath and squeezed her knee. “And if I’m being honest, it’s hard for me to feel true regret for my actions when I never felt affection for her in the first place. I did what I had to do to solve the case. It was nothing personal,” he finished, his voice clinical, distant.

“And look what that got you,” Molly muttered, closing her eyes again. “A bullet in your liver.”

“Yes. I do suppose I had that coming,” Sherlock mused drily.

“Well, you must have felt _something_ for her at some point, Sherlock,” Molly continued softly, the barest hint of anger and disgust tingeing her voice. “I know you’re an expert liar and all, but even you, as a man, would have a hard time faking an orgasm.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrow. “Molly, I faked my death for two years. Do you really think I’m incapable of faking an orgasm?” he asked.

They stared at each other in silence for all of three seconds before they both burst out laughing.

“Oh…god…why am I picturing you texting Mycroft with fake orgasm plans?” Molly squealed, clutching her stomach and giggling uncontrollably.

“Yes, that’s exactly what I did,” Sherlock replied, grinning. “ _Operation Empty Chamber is a go_.”

Molly clapped her hands over her face, her body shaking with laughter.

“I only needed ten members of my homeless network this time around –“

“Oh my god, STOP IT!”

“ – a _much_ smaller airbag as well –“

“Sherlock, STOP!” Molly gasped, swiping at his arm with one hand while wiping the tears from her cheeks with the other. She stared up at his smiling face as her giggles slowly died down. He met her eyes, and just like that, the atmosphere in the room changed yet again. The wide, boyish grin melted from his face, replaced with a knowing, vaguely hungry smile.

Sherlock leaned over her body again until his face was hovering just above hers. “It was easy, actually,” he murmured, his darkened eyes boring through hers. “I thought of you.”

Molly simply stared at him, eyes wide, her breath and pulse quickening as Sherlock finally gripped her zipper and began to work it down, one tooth at a time.

“You thought of me…when?” she exhaled, her abdomen clenching and relaxing in waves, the metallic _click_ of her zip loud in the stillness of the flat.

“Don’t be dull, Molly,” Sherlock huffed. He dropped his head and found the sweet spot behind her ear with his mouth. Molly gasped and arched her back. _He remembers. Of course he remembers. Oh…god…_

“When she was stroking me, I thought of you,” he whispered against her throat. “I thought of your hand on my cock.” He kissed his way down, stopping just above her clavicle to suck a deep mark on her pale flesh. Molly whimpered softly.

“I closed my eyes…and I pretended I was fucking you. Again,” he whispered, sliding a finger into her now-open trousers. Molly bit her lower lip and stifled a moan as he lightly ran a fingertip over her soaked knickers. He tilted his face up and captured her mouth with his own, softly at first, and then, as Molly pressed her body upward against him, much more insistently.

She brought both hands upward and clutched the sides of his head, holding him in place as she tangled her tongue with his, hints of whisky intermingled with a taste that was uniquely his; one that she had sampled before, and one she had been certain she would never taste again.

Without breaking the kiss, Molly slid her hands from Sherlock’s face and to the waist of her trousers and knickers, pushing them down her hips. Sherlock took the hint. He pulled his face away from hers just long enough to assist Molly in her quest to wiggle out of her pants, gripping the waistband and practically tearing them from her legs. He dove forward again, planting one hand on the armrest above her head for support, and snaking the other down her body before coming to rest at her sex. With little to no hesitation, he simultaneously plunged his tongue into her mouth and his fingers into her cunt. Molly gasped into his mouth and pushed her pelvis downward, undulating her hips in time with his rough strokes. She was almost embarrassed by how wet she was for him, but between the alcohol and the verbal sparring and the way he was currently nibbling on her lower lip, she couldn’t be bothered to care much.

“Now. Sherlock,” Molly panted, her tone at once demanding and pleading. “I’m ready, now, please –“

Sherlock needed no other encouragement. In an impressive display of those infamous lightning –quick reflexes, he gripped Molly’s hips and effortlessly flipped her onto her belly. She couldn’t control the surprised squeal that slipped from her throat, or the breathless moan that followed as Sherlock pulled her to her hands and knees and began relentlessly working her pussy open with his tongue. He placed one hand between her shoulder blades and pushed her torso down against the cushions, leaving her arse high in the air. Molly practically bit through the upholstery as Sherlock ran his tongue from the tip of her clit all the way up to the sensitive flesh of her arsehole. She gasped and wriggled against the new sensation, having never been rimmed before. It was an act that had never appealed to her, actually, until that very moment, with Sherlock gripping both of her arse cheeks, spreading her wide and placing the filthiest of openmouthed kisses on every inch of her heated, slick flesh.

“ _Now_ you’re ready,” she heard him say, after several moments of blinding pleasure. She shivered as he ran the tip of his tongue from the top of her arse crack to base of her spine before placing a series of rough kisses on her lower back.

Molly stilled as the sound of a zipper and the rustle of fabric reached her ears, and then wriggled eagerly against tip of Sherlock’s erection as he ran it through her folds, gathering her moisture and teasing her into a near frenzy.

“Fuck, please Sherlock, please,” she begged, pushing her hips back against his cock with urgency. He finally relented, steadying himself with one hand on the small of her back and taking himself into the other, pushing into her tight, soaking heat in one beautifully painful thrust.

Molly screamed out, both from pleasure and pain, and quickly adjusted her hips to accommodate his girth. Sherlock wrapped his fingers around the crests of her pelvic bones, and began thrusting into her earnestly, pushing and pulling her hips in time with the slick movements of his cock. Molly reached out to grip the armrest, pushing herself back against his brutal thrusts and crying out a stream of filthy, practically incoherent requests.

“Harder, fuck, yes, FUCK Sherlock, your cock feels so good,” Molly babbled, reveling in the obscene sound of his flesh slapping against her thighs. Sherlock released her right hip and slid his hand up her back, tangling his fingers in her hair. He gripped her long strands and yanked firmly, pulling Molly’s head up and arching her back. Her new position awarded his cock unlimited access to her G- spot, and Molly had to use every ounce of strength she could muster to lock her elbows and keep from collapsing into a quivering heap.

“…so beautiful like this, Molly,” she could hear Sherlock saying over her own keening wails. “So beautiful, Molly. I need you to come, I need you to come all over my cock, please Molly, please come for me,” he groaned as he moved his other hand around to her front. He found her clitoris with ease and circled the sensitive flesh with the tip of his finger as he continued to bury himself in her at a ruthless pace.

Molly screamed out as she finally broke, her orgasm ripping through her center and consuming every inch of her body. Her walls pulsed and clenched around Sherlock as he rode her through her shockwaves. He released his grip on her head and she collapsed forward, her muscle control a distant memory. A moment later, she heard him gasp and pull out suddenly, splashing his hot release over her lower back and arse.

Sherlock curled his trembling body over Molly’s and pressed his lips to the nape of her neck, wrapping one arm under her waist and clutching her tightly. They stayed like that for several quiet moments, the earlier events of the day past blissfully forgotten.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Confessions, forgiveness, expectations, hair-washing, and a whole lot of smut.

“This doesn’t let you off the hook you know – _ohhh, yes. Right there._ ”

Molly dropped her head forward a bit, the steam from the bath water mixing with the small beads of perspiration along her hairline. She clutched the sides of the claw foot tub and murmured appreciatively as Sherlock continued to softly massage her scalp, the familiar scent of her lavender shampoo filling the air.

In the moments that had followed their rather… _enthusiastic_ coupling, Molly had become well aware that she was in desperate need of a shower, and had also realized that she did not possess the physical strength to lift her limp body off of the sofa to complete the task. 

But as fate would have it, she had also been fortunate enough to find herself pinned beneath a goddamned mind reader.

Sherlock had wordlessly placed a small, chaste kiss between her shoulder blades and headed for the bathroom, while Molly remained on her belly, too spent to even pick her face up out of the cushion. Moments later, she dimly registered the sound of running water, and the thud of returning footsteps.

Sherlock had gently lifted her into a sitting position and knelt before her. Molly watched him through a hazy, half lidded gaze as he smoothed her knotted tresses out of her eyes. He smiled at her, and all she could do was hum at him in appreciation. Save for his flushed face, he was once again meticulously put-together – shirt tucked in, trousers crisp and straight. He looked as if he had merely run up several flights of stairs, rather than having spent the better part of the half hour fucking her into the upholstery.

Molly – sticky, sore, and naked from the waist down – couldn’t say the same for herself.

She had allowed him to gently remove her blouse and bra before scooping her up and carrying her to the bathroom. Neither of them spoke as he gently set her down in the deep tub. She gasped softly as the hot water nipped her sensitive skin, but soon relaxed as her aching body quickly adapted to the soothing heat.

“I’ve spent the better part of my life _on the hook_ for something, I don’t imagine that’s going to change any time soon,” Sherlock replied, methodically working his fingers through her wet tresses. Molly hissed and jumped slightly as he pressed on the base of her skull. He instinctively pulled his hand back. “Sorry – too rough?” he asked. 

“No, it’s all right”, Molly said, reaching back and touching the sore spot gingerly. “It’s just, um, a little sore. From the hair-pulling.”

“Oh. Yes. Right. Sorry,” Sherlock responded. He cleared his throat, and Molly couldn’t help but grin a little, as she imagined the slight flush that was surely creeping into his cheeks.

“No, it’s okay,” she said. “It was a good thing.”

“Was it?”

“Very." 

Sherlock hummed in approval and returned his fingers to her scalp, his touch a bit lighter this time. Molly sighed and tipped her head back against his hands as he worked in silence.

“I didn’t choose him because he reminded me of you, you know,” she blurted suddenly. Sherlock’s fingers paused for a brief second before continuing their efforts. 

“I didn’t think you did,” he replied casually, working the lather through the ends of her hair.

“Yes you did,” Molly countered, tipping her head to the side and stretching her sore neck. “You all did. I’m not an idiot." 

“Of course you’re not an idiot,” Sherlock responded immediately.  His hands paused again at her nape, and Molly could feel his hesitation. He cleared his throat again. “Why _did_ you choose him?” 

“Because he was what I was supposed to want,” she answered matter-of-factly.  “That’s what everyone was telling me I wanted. And I believed them. At least, for a little while.”

“And what, exactly, do _they_ say you’re _supposed_ to want?” Sherlock asked, pulling his hands away from her hair. Molly heard the squeak of the faucet, followed by the sound of running water.  “Tip your head back, “ he instructed. Molly complied and sighed quietly as the spray of the hand-held shower cascaded over her hairline. 

“A doting husband and loads of babies, I suspect,” Molly murmured in reply. “A ‘nice bloke’. Someone to take care of me.” 

“Someone who doesn’t take advantage of you for morgue access or comment on the size of your mouth and breasts?” Sherlock asked quietly, lifting the hair from her back and moving the nozzle rhythmically over her soapy locks.

Molly quirked her lips into a small smile. “Basically,” she replied. “A nice girl needs a nice boy to take care of her, right?” she continued sarcastically. “Because a quiet and kind woman can’t possibly be adept as well.” She huffed slightly. “Never mind that I’ve been perfectly capable taking care of myself for the past fifteen years or so.” 

“Well, you’re also perfectly capable of washing your own hair, yet I don’t see you complaining,” Sherlock teased, running the spray along the back of her head.

“Shut up,” she responded mildly, grinning in spite of herself. “That’s not what I meant and you know it.” She rolled her neck to the other side, her vertebrae popping in appreciation. “Besides, Tom turned out to be a little _too_ nice in the end, didn’t he?” she mused quietly.  She turned her face toward Sherlock and watched him as he silently focused on the ends of her wet hair.

“Why do you keep coming here?” Molly asked. “And don’t say it’s because John needs space,” she cut in, just as he opened his mouth to speak. He raised his eyebrow slightly and met her gaze, pressing his lips together in silent appraisal. “There are literally hundreds of places in this city where you could go to give John space,” she continued, forcing herself to maintain his level of eye contact. “Why my flat?”

“I think you know the answer to that,” he replied, his tone even

“No, Sherlock, I really don’t. I think if one thing is perfectly clear, it’s that I have _no idea_ what it is you want from me.  Do _you_ even know what you want from me?” 

Sherlock continued to regard her in silence, his expression neutral and utterly unreadable.

Molly tossed her hands up in exasperation. “See?” she cried, water sloshing against the side of the tub. “How am I supposed to feel when you can’t even –“

“I want you.” 

Molly stopped in mid sentence and stared. “You want me _how?_ As a friend? For an occasional shag? _How_ do you want me?” she implored, brow furrowed. “I’m sorry, but I just…I need to know what to expect. You break into my flat, smash my fiance’s face into the wall, and fuck me on my sofa, yet somehow I’m still getting mixed signals here.” 

“ _Ex-_ fiance,” Sherlock immediately corrected. “And I also brought you takeaway, don’t forget that.”

“ _Sherlock._ ”

Sherlock moved his arm around her and turned the faucet off.  He reached out and smoothed her hair away from her face. “I don’t know how to do this properly,” he began, his eyes searching her face. “And historically speaking, every person who has dared love me has received nothing but pain in return.  I hurt people, and I’m afraid I’ll hurt you. I already _have_ hurt you, and you deserve better than that.” 

Molly sucked in a deep breath, and reached up to cup his chin. “What I _deserve,”_ she said, quietly but firmly, “is someone who trusts that I know what’s best for me. “

She shifted unto her knees, turning until she was eye level with him. “Loving someone is never going to be pain-free, Sherlock. Yes, you’ve hurt me. But you didn’t break me,” she continued, loosening her grip and sliding her hand across his jaw, stroking his cheek. “And that’s the difference, to me. I know you’ll never break me.”

Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes, nuzzling into her palm. “You can’t possibly know that,” he said, his expression mournful.

Molly squeezed his jaw lightly until he opened his eyes. “I do know that,” she replied, locking him with a fierce look, “because I am not made of glass. Yes, you might hurt me. But you cannot break me.” She leaned forward and placed a soft kiss on his lips. “No one can break me,” she whispered as she pulled away. “Do you understand?”

“I think so,” Sherlock replied, his voice quiet and rough. He pulled back to gaze upon her, his eyes dancing over her features. She smiled softly and gave him a playful tap on the cheekbone.

“Stop deducing me,” she chided. “I meant every word, I promise.”

“I’m not deducing you, I’m just…making room for new information,” he said with a small smile. 

“Does that new information include my desire for you to get me out of this bathtub and take me into the bedroom?” she murmured, trailing her fingers gently down the side of his neck.

He took a sharp breath, his pulse jumping beneath her fingertips. “Wait a minute,” he said playfully, pausing to look up in faux-concentration. “Okay, now that’s been catalogued, too.”

Molly’s giggles turned to shrieks as he quickly scooped her out of the tub, water splashing over the side and soaking his clothes. “Sherlock!” she laughed, “Wait! Let me dry off first, I’m getting you all wet!” 

“Irrelevant,” Sherlock replied, swinging her into his arms, bridal-style. He carried her through the small flat with water still cascading off her body, leaving a wet trail on the hardwood flooring. “ I don’t plan on staying dressed for long,” he said with a grin, nudging her bedroom door open with his elbow. 

* * *

 

Their previous encounters had all been frantic, needy, rough.

The first night they were together was also the first (and only) time he had come to see her after faking his suicide. She had met him in the foyer at 1am (clutching her father’s old cricket bat), after the sound of him picking her lock roused her from a fitful sleep. Once she realized who it was (and really, deep down, she knew it couldn’t have been anyone else), she had flown into his arms, taking him by surprise.

He returned her embrace, burying his face into her shoulder, and she could feel him tremble, the bones in his back prominent against the press of her arms. Somehow, the kiss she placed on his temple became more, and before long, she was tearing the coat from his shoulders and he was yanking her pyjama shorts down her legs, pulling his cock out and pinning her to the wall, taking her right there in the hallway with little preamble.

After he had come (and she hadn’t), he dragged her to the sitting room, roughly pushing her into her nearest armchair and diving face first into her cunt, seemingly un-phased by his own seed, savagely bringing her off with his tongue and fingers before she even had a chance to process what was happening.

He had spent the remainder of those early morning hours in her bed, waking her twice, each time with his mouth on her neck and his cock pressing urgently against her backside. Both times, she spread herself for him, wordlessly, allowing him to fuck her with the teeming desperation of a man living on borrowed time.    

He was gone before the sun had fully risen. A simple note, scribbled on the back of a Tesco’s receipt, had been placed on her nightstand, the words “Thank you. I’m sorry” sending a cold knife of despair through her chest. 

They hadn’t even spoken one word.

The second time was after his return, and due to shame, she wouldn’t allow herself to linger on those memories for more than a second or two.

He was not okay and she knew it, yet she still had allowed him in to her flat, allowed him to start pinning case notes and pictures to her wall as if her bedroom was his own personal 221B, and when he was done pacing and muttering nonsense phrases to himself (“Appledore”, “CAM”, and “letters” being the words featured most prominently in those rantings), had allowed him to bend her over the side of her bed and fuck her so hard that part of her mattress collapsed.

The next day, she was getting a phone call from John Watson, inquiring about an impromptu toxicology screening. The subsequent blows she delivered an hour later were just as much intended for her as they were for him. After all, she had twice fucked an intravenous drug user with no protection. The drug screening results were merely confirmation of the single stupidest thing she had ever done in her adult life.

That afternoon, when a lab report declaring him free from all sexually transmitted pathogens appeared on her desk, she had sobbed with bitter relief.

 

* * *

 

Needless to say, as she now stood before him in the quiet darkness of her bedroom, the atmosphere was much, much different.

She fought the chill of the air on her damp skin as she slowly undid the buttons of his soaked shirt, kissing each patch of pale skin she uncovered, trailing her lips down his torso and abdomen until she was on her knees before him.

“Molly, you don’t have to do that,” Sherlock murmured, pushing her wet hair away from her face, staring down at her with an expression that clearly said _Please do that._ She grinned as her fingers worked at his flies.  “I know. I want to,” she whispered up at him. She gripped the waistband of his trousers and pants, pushing them down his thighs, just enough for his erection to spring free. 

“I’ve never really gotten a good look at you, “ Molly murmured, tracing the lines of his long, lovely cock with one fingertip. He stifled a moan as she leaned forward and followed the trail with the tip of her tongue. “And I’ve certainly never tasted you,” she continued, ghosting her mouth over the blunt head of his prick, a small amount of salty wetness smearing across her bottom lip. “You’ve eaten my pussy at least twice. Fair is fair,” she said, her voice low and husky. 

His cock twitched at that, and she smiled up at him one last time before grasping him in hand and sucking him into the warmth of her mouth. She languidly swirled her tongue around the head, pulling back to dip into his slit, lapping up the remaining precome with slow precision. He gasped, cradling the back of her damp head with both hands, encouraging her motions without forcing. 

She relaxed her throat and slid him in deeper, stopping when she felt herself gagging lightly. Hollowing her cheeks, she sucked deeply, squeezing the base of his prick as she moved her lips up and down his length, slowly, glorying in his ridged heat in her mouth, savoring the musky taste on her tongue, a unique combination of her own juices and a flavor that was all his own.

Before long, he was tugging her up by the shoulders, pulling her mouth from his prick and encouraging her to stand. She complied, rising to her feet as he captured her mouth with his own, slowly, deeply, his hands on either side of her face. She rested her hands on his chest and sighed against his lips, parting her own mouth slowly and working her tongue against his, lightly catching his bottom lip with her teeth as she pulled back.

He guided her to the bed and eased her onto her back gently, lifting himself up to hover over her still-damp body. “I’m a little sore,” Molly whispered, leaning up to place a small kiss to the tip of his nose. “Just be gentle.”

The smile he gave nearly melted her into a puddle of her former self. Without saying a word, he rolled to the side, curling his body around her supine form, and began  tracing the lips of her pussy with his fingers, his touch feather light. 

Molly gasped and wriggled as he soothed her aching cunt with most delicate of strokes, waiting until she was at peak wetness before sliding his fingers inside, curling them rhythmically against her walls, lightly teasing her clit with his thumb until she was scrambling on the brink of her precipice. He bent low to her breast, sucking one pert nipple into his mouth as he increased his pressure on her sensitive bud, and she came apart, tumbling over the edge with a silent cry of ecstasy.

Sherlock held her against his chest as she came down from her high, her breaths greedy and gulping. “Can you get on top of me?” he whispered, once she had returned to baseline. Molly raised her head and simply nodded, too shagged out to formulate a verbal response. He rolled on to his back as she carefully straddled his erection with shaking thighs. “This is how I’ve always wanted you,” he said, grasping her by the hips and groaning as she ran her soaking slit over his ridged length. “Riding my cock, your body on display for me, only for me.”

Molly gazed down at him as she pushed her hips back, the blunt head of his prick positioned perfectly at her slick entrance. “Then why didn’t you have me like this?” she asked, lowering down slowly, his cock filling her in ways that no other man’s ever could.

“I didn’t deserve it,” he gasped, eyes closed. “Your beauty, your tenderness, your love…I did nothing to deserve any of it.” He took a deep breath as she finally seated him fully inside. “I wasn’t worthy to gaze upon you like that, to watch you while you loved me.”

Molly placed both hands lightly on his chest. “And are you worthy now?” she asked, her voice rough with emotion. He opened his eyes and stared up at her, his eyes full of marvel as he drank in her nude form.

“I’d like to try to be,” he ground out, and she began to move, sliding up and down his cock slowly, deliberately. She moaned as he lifted his hips to meet hers on the down stroke, his lower abdomen brushing her clit and sending chills up her spine.

“Promise me,” she whispered, leaning forward, capturing his mouth softly as they began to pick up a faster rhythm. “Just promise me that you’ll always try. That’s all I ask.”

Sherlock wrapped his arms around her back and brought her flush to his chest, holding her tightly in place as he drove his hips upward, again and again, as they both raced toward their completion.

“I promise.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm toying with an epilogue as we speak, but for now let's just consider this one complete :)
> 
> The response to this story has been overwhelming, and I truly cannot thank you guys enough for your kind words, reviews, recs, and kudos. There were many times over the past year I considered abandoning this work, and needless to say, I am so thankful that I didn't. 
> 
> So again, from the bottom of my heart - thank you so much :)


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